Our Story
by LaPoseur
Summary: Peeta's rescue was a success! Huzzah (': Non-canon lovableness.
1. Sweet Return

_Well, the response to my last post was rather unexpectedly lovely (': So I thought I'd continue on in a vein of happy writing._

_Now, I don't know about anyone else, but I was genuinely shocked after Peeta's rescue when he went to strangle Katniss. Huge amount of sadface, because I knew that their adorable relationship would never be the same ): Soo, as an homage to the loveliness of their pre-QQ/hijacking romance I decided to write this. It will take longer to get there, but I am going to let open the doors of gushy mushy romancity within me in order to channel Peeta, and Katniss will get there at some point. Silly thing. (As pressing and important as it is, not much of the rebellion will be mentioned here.)_

Alive and well – maybe not well but alive and here. Away from Snow. Safe. Here. With me. In a minute I can touch him. See his smile. Hear his laugh.

Haymitch's grinning at me. "Come on, then," he says.

I'm lightheaded with giddiness. What will I say? Oh, who cares what I say? Peeta will be ecstatic no matter what I do. He'll probably be kissing me anyway. I wonder if it will feel like those last kisses on the beach in the arena, the ones I haven't dared let myself consider until this moment.

Peeta's awake already, sitting on the side of the bed, looking bewildered as a trio of doctors reassure him, flash lights in his eyes, check his pulse. I'm disappointed that mine was not the first face he saw when he woke, but he sees it now. His features register disbelief and something more intense I can't quite place.

My eyes drink him in; the boy with the bread seems so far away from this skinny, starved, bruised and battered boy in front of me. Pale, gaunt, with dark circles beneath his eyes and half-healed wounds marring his once smooth skin. I feel sickened to see burns and tracker jacker sting lumps on him. I'm afraid to move closer, in case this is a terrible nightmare and we won't have rescued him and I'll wake up filled with the emptiness I associate with his absence. I'm afraid to touch him, afraid to hurt him. His eyes grow wide, fixed on my face and, despite the doctors half-heartedly trying to stop him, he gets to his feet – which takes so much more effort and seems so difficult for him that I catch my breath – and shuffles, lopsided, towards me. Wordless, I extend my arms to him and he extends his to me and gently, oh, so gently, we press into the contact I so desperately missed. He seems weak, his body a shadow of its former stature and his embrace fragile. My stomach drops as I feel how malnourished and abused he has become. I am broken for his breaking.

Peeta's eyes are glistening with tears, his mouth slightly open in speechlessness as he seems to memorise my face. His hands wind into my hair, feathering lightly into the looser strands above the braid, and my skin flushes with goosebumps. I have ached for this. My hands slide up his arms and find the limp curls atop his head, my fingers coiling into the waves. Distressingly, my fingers brush lightly over what feels like scars and scabs, new and old. Vaguely, I feel warm tears spill onto my cheeks. We are alone in the room, despite the doctors and Haymitch. No one else is here, to us. His mouth opens a degree more and he speaks in a heartbreakingly ruined voice. Croaky, grisly, cracking. Barely more than a whisper.

"Katniss," he says simply. I feel my insides churning with so many emotions that I know I could never try to understand, so I just respond with concern and comfort.

"Shh," I hush him softly, shaking my head, not wanting him to hurt his voice further. My hand moves to cup his gaunt cheek, my thumb brushing over the hollow under his eyes. His skin is cold. I feel his hands flutter across my cheekbones, barely touching me, but I can feel his fingers trace my eyebrow falteringly.

Slowly, we move together and I lay my head lightly against his chest and I hear the sound that makes me know he'll be alright, his heartbeat, as my arms tighten around his waist. He seems so much smaller in my arms that he once was. I feel his cheek settle against my head tenderly, feel his nose brush the top of my ear, hear the gentle intake of breath as he breathes me in. I wonder if I still smell like his Katniss.

I can smell nothing of Peeta. I can't smell the bread, the flour. I can't smell the sunshine in his hair. I smell disinfectant, cleaning and antibacterial products. Medical things. Better than the sweat and blood and goodness knows what else that might have been before. Being strong for other people is something I can do; my mother taught me that. But I'm not sure I could have survived seeing Peeta come back without him being cleaned up.

As his arms take their place around me, I know that I have found what I need. I am complete with this boy, this man. And I know I will nurse him back to health. I will stay by his side until he orders me away – not the doctors, not Coin, not Haymitch. Okay, maybe Haymitch, but that's because he knows Peeta would never send me away. But I never want to leave him. Nothing will ever hurt him again.

The relief and joy that flood through me at the return of his contact is broken all too soon for me when faceless hands pry us apart from each other. Peeta, broken and weak, tries to hang on, but I know that he needs to lie down. His colour has faded, even from the pale shade he was. The darkness under his eyes is even starker in contrast, and the red blisters and open wounds are virulent and frightening. I look into his eyes, the blue eyes I have longed to see for so long and reassure him with a tentative smile, walking back to the bed with him. There is no chair, so I stand, holding his hand. The doctors are trying to ask him questions, to continue their examinations, but although he answers them (usually with a nod or a shake of his head) his eyes don't leave my face. I clasp his hand in mine, stroking comforting circles on his skin. He watches me like a blind man seeing for the first time, his gaze taking in every contour of my skin, those startling blue eyes so fixed as if I was his whole grip on reality. His life-raft.

Eventually, the medical officials stop their interrogation, their prodding, and leave us be. Haymitch left long ago, bored I assume. But now it's just Peeta and me. And we say nothing; is there anything to say? Words wouldn't be able to express anything well enough. How could I explain that my nights were filled with restlessness and I missed his arms to wake me from my nightmares? How could I convey the ache inside of me whenever I thought of him? Maybe I didn't need to.

Inside that room, there was no sense of time. No sense of progression. We could have been alone for hours, or minutes, and I wouldn't have known the difference. Still, I knew that Peeta had to sleep. There was a small vial of sleep syrup that the doctors had pointed out, left on the side. They allowed us to choose when he would sleep. More generous than I expected. Breaking my eyes away from his face, the combination of ruined and perfect, was hard but I turned to the vial and picked it up. With one hand, I prise it open.

"Peeta," I said softly, afraid to shatter our moment. His eyebrows twitched as I spoke, as if in response to hearing my voice again. Slowly, fearfully, I moved closer to him, putting the vial to his lips. His hand stilled mine as the glass met his skin.

"Don't go," he whispered imploringly.

"I won't," I said, but he still held me back.

"Promise you'll stay," he said, his voice cracking with the effort. The sound created both the urge to run away and the resolve to never leave. My eyes stung with fresh tears.

"I promise," I murmur, my voice barely audible. I lift my free hand and rest it against his cheek, holding him softly. Tenderly.

"That's what you said last time," he said, and it took me a moment to realise he was talking about the first games we were in. I couldn't help but break into a smile, feeling my eyes spill over. Was he trying to make a joke? In this state?

"I'm not going anywhere," I promised, my words hush and clogged with tears. He reached up his hand and held mine to his cheek lovingly before relenting and swallowing the syrup. Within a minute, he was asleep. The main lights turned off shortly afterward, a table lamp illuminating the near side of his face. We must be under observation.

I kept my word. I didn't leave once. I didn't even sleep. Instead I continued my examination. His hand that still held mine was bruised and scarred. A few of his nails were split, and some had fresh blood caked into the cuticles. One nail was black. I started looking closer, both disgusted by what I saw and intent on seeing it all. The tracker sting that had swollen on his jawline had multiple puncture holes in the top. Repeated stingings in the same spot. The remaining open wounds had been bandaged or covered by the doctors before they left. Some of them had already begun seeping through the fabric. There were sores around his lips that looked like acidic burns. Poison? Who knows.

As I did this, I came to realise that I underestimated how much I loved Peeta. From this point onwards, I would need him for my survival. I recognised that. His absence would cause me to retreat back into my mind. I would become my mother.

I knew I loved Peeta.

When did I fall _in_ love with him?


	2. A Long Night

_Sorry this took so long! Little to no free time at the moment and I didn't think I'd have such a good response (': Will try to write quicker for you all in the future (:_

I stayed up all night. When it was made clear I wasn't going to leave Peeta, someone brought in a chair so I could sit with him. Carefully, I held his hand through the long hours, memorising the feel of it in my fingers. Not even when I was looking after him in the first games did he feel or look this…breakable.

There weren't any windows, but the clock on the monitor read 5:48AM when someone came in who wasn't a doctor. Gale had come to visit. His eyes were wary as he approached, and I saw them flick to where my hands clasped Peeta's once, twice, and eventually a third time. A cloud settled over his brow. I met his gaze levelly, not moving. As if trying to stay professional, he nodded in greeting.

"Soldier Everdeen." I was slightly bristled by his cold welcome, but then again, I should have predicted it. I replied in kind.

"Soldier Hawthorne." I returned to watching Peeta. He needed me more. The silence stretched out a bit, and I could feel Gale's irritation from where I was sitting. _Just get down to business, Gale,_ I thought. Now is not a good time for a fight. I heard him clear his throat.

"President Coin needs to see you," he said formally, and I noticed him adopting a rather official stance in the edge of my vision. I watched Peeta still, keeping my voice low and my temper cool.

"President Coin has legs," I replied levelly.

"And a very busy schedule, and she needs you to see her in her office," Gale responded, his words emotionless and flat. After a moment's silence, trying to figure out whether my next words will be worth it or not, I decide to throw all caution to the wind.

"Tell President Coin that I am happy to see her, but I'm not leaving Peeta." My voice grew hard and cold. "Not again." Peeta's hand twitched. I tried to calm myself down; I didn't want him waking up. Not to anger or irritation.

"Katniss," Gale said in a tone that obviously he thought brooked no opposition, but I cut him off.

"No, Gale. I left him once before and look what happened. I'm not letting go of him. He deserves at least that." I could feel an edge of desperation creep in. Was I trying to make up for my former failures by attending him? A tiny knot of self-doubt wriggled in the pit of my stomach. The huff of Gale sighing brought me out of that sudden contemplation, and he drew breath as if to add something but instead turned on his heel and stalked out. Without Gale in the room, my anger dissipated slowly, bit by bit.

Gale had a fire in him that matched mine. Both so stubborn, both so resilient. Best friends for years; you'd think we'd be a perfect match. But I remember kissing him and not feeling anything. It was just lips on lips, and after a while, a bit wet. But nothing was really happening, not like when Peeta used to kiss me. Like on the beach.

A warm sensation flushed through my body as I remembered each lingering touch of his lips on me. His hands burning through my clothes; my skin had never been more aware of each sweep of his fingers. My memories flickered to the kiss in the cave, where something had tugged in my navel and a strange yearning had curled into me. My breathing had quickened, my skin glowed and I felt light-headed. Was that the head-wound? Maybe. But maybe not.

The clock on the monitor continued to count into the morning hours as I sat there, trying to figure out why I felt like I was glowing right now. Was that-? I'm not sure of anything, but I think I'm enjoying this. So I let it happen. I linger on the details, the sweetness of his lips, the tentativeness of his caresses.

At 7:00AM on the dot, a doctor walked in silently and visually checked him over. I don't think they wanted to wake him, so after a cursory overview, they shuffled out again, not a word to me. That was fine though. I didn't particularly feel like talking. That was Peeta's job. He spoke for me through the Hunger Games, through the tour of the Districts, he spoke for the Capitol when I spoke for the revolution. If I could, I would take him away and hide him from the world so he wouldn't have to talk for anyone else again, or put himself in danger. I would protect him.

No. I _will_ protect him.

The time ticked upwards. Every now and then, a doctor would come in and check him over visually. He slept easily through it. If it hadn't been for the clock telling me how long I'd spent here, I wouldn't have a clue. A month? A minute? They would have felt the same. I didn't want to let him go, despite the fact that I could feel the enticement of slumber dripping, heavy, on my eyelids. I was hungry as well. Not like I couldn't deal with that. Not like I hadn't been hungry before. The worst bit was the fact that I needed to relieve myself; I was unaccustomed to not being able to do this as and when I wanted. But I wouldn't leave his side until he woke up. I refused to.

Hours passed, moments at a time. I wasn't certain how large a dose Peeta had been given, and so didn't know when he would wake up. I started pretending to tie knots against the skin of Peeta's hand with a few fingers to keep my mind distracted and my fingers busy. After a while though, I could feel the sinking sensation of slowly losing my mind to anxiety that I now associated with the rope, and with tying knots. So I stopped, and instead I held his hand, really focusing on it. Lightly, I traced his fingers, his knuckles, the small ridges of the untreated scabs like sections of sandpaper, the bandages feathery or slightly damp from new blood or fluid, but most of all, I lingered on the skin. Soft and strangely smooth for a baker, it managed to retain its baby-like state through his vicious mother, the laborious work, through the sickening Hunger Games and the horrific, scarring torture.

Keeping his hand clasped gently in one of my own, I let the other wander up his arm slowly. I really felt him; not just the stunned caresses of earlier, but remembering our past. This was a lingering and deliberate action, where I made each motion to keep stored in forever. I was memorising him, memorising why he needed to be kept safe.

And allowing myself to be kept sane, for the present. The skin I came across was warmer than it was before, thankfully. My hand gradually came to rest over his heart, and the sensation of that regular affirmation of life brought a fleeting smile to the very edges of my lips.

Leaning forward, I allowed myself to run my hand up his chest, barely touching some places for fear of nudging the angry wounds and causing him to wake up early. My hand gingerly cupped the side of his neck, my thumb sweeping across the bruised skin. I lingered there, relishing the thrumming of his pulse and the indulgence of feeling him next to me. He was real. Tentatively, my hand smoothed up to his jaw, my fingertips resting lightly against the first dip of shadow under his eye.

Peeta stirred. I froze, my breath baited in anticipation. His lips moved slightly, murmuring something inaudible and breathy. His head turned slowly and pressed my hand closer to his skin, and his nose grazed the side of my palm. He drew in a deep breath, and the ghost of a smile flickered across his mouth. The dryness on my tongue was almost unbearable, but I didn't dare move. Not even to swallow. With a flutter of eyelids, I found myself once again faced by those blue, blue eyes.

But they were different. There was a constant fear there, dimming the light that used to shine so brightly.

For a long, long moment, Peeta's eyes bored into mine. Like he was seeing me for the first time again. Then, unexpectedly, his lips broke into a heartbreaking smile, pure joy radiant in his expression. A few tears had welled up and spilled from his eyes, but he still smiled like his face would split. I realised I was smiling as well, feeling a hot tear slip down my cheek.

"Katniss," he said crackingly, and the sound of his voice brought fresh tears to my eyes.

"Peeta," I whispered in return. He was the one good with words, so I wasn't surprised by my lack of verbose ability.

"You stayed," he said, and my response was just a fervent nod. Haltingly, he brought the hand I was holding up to his lips, and he pressed my skin against his lips.

"I love you," he said simply, and I knew then that he had to say it. Even as he thought I wouldn't reply in kind, he had to say it again to me; he couldn't hold it in. I knew it because I knew how he felt. Because I felt it too. And I wanted him to know. So, I watched his face hungrily, ecstatically, and replied.

"I love you too, Peeta."


End file.
